


The Audition

by arturas



Series: The Working Title EP [2]
Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games), Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Blow Jobs, F/M, Hair-pulling, Musical Instruments, Musicians, Oral Sex, Sex, it started out as a crack oneshot how did it end up like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29326416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arturas/pseuds/arturas
Summary: Atton's stuck in a rut (almost literally) as a store dogsbody for Peragus Musical Equipment and Servicing, but it's not like there's a big market for washed-up, never-been ex-concert pianists in the rock scene. Then in walks one Meetra Surik - renown bassist for the legendary Revanchist and honest-to-god rock royalty - and things take a rather surprising turn.Technically a precursor to Crossfade, set in the same universe.
Relationships: Female Jedi Exile/Atton "Jaq" Rand, The Jedi Exile/Atton "Jaq" Rand
Series: The Working Title EP [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155938
Comments: 15
Kudos: 13





	1. Loser

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for plenty of bad language, drug references, a frankly ridiculous number of references and shout-outs and ~~just a smidge~~ far too much thought and planning for a smut entry in what started as a crack oneshot but has degenerated into a full-blown AU courtesy of Clio_Codex. Also blowjobs, oral sex, PIV sex and gratituous abuse of music terminology, but you can skip ch2 if you aren't down for that kind of stuff - first chapter is clean except for some bad language and minor drug references. Set before Crossfade but 100% not necessary to read that to have an idea of what the fuck is going on here.

_you can't write if you can't relate_

_trade the cash for the beef for the body for the hate_

_and my time is a piece of wax falling on a termite_

_that's choking on the splinters_

_soy un perdedor_

_I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?_

~ "Loser", Beck

* * *

Atton mindlessly sorts through a pile of tangled cables on the floor of Peragus Musical Equipment and Servicing, bored out of his goddamn skull the way he always is these days. It’s not that he’s pissed about having a consistent job for once (though after so many years of piece work, he _is_ kind of bitter about spending his hours selling instruments instead of playing them). It’s not that he doesn’t like the security of a regular paycheque either, or easy access to replacement gear. It’s just… _boring_. Stifling. It’s almost like being in a jail cell, down to the bars on the windows and the inability to smoke when he wants to, except he gets to go home at 5pm.

Not that his dingy little studio apartment’s much less of a cell. At least he can light up whenever he wants there; fuck the landlord’s non-smoking clause. He never planned on getting his bond back anyway – it’s a cash deal, no contract. He’ll just skip with the last fortnight’s rent and call it even.

Ugh. _Fuck_ this cable pile. Whatever sugar-crazed brat came through and messed them all up should’ve been forced to sit here and fix it the way he is… but he’s the one in the uniform. Oh well. At least it’s giving him something concrete to complain about. More so when he goes to lift a hand up and both of his feet come with it. He curses and untangles one foot only to realise he’s now got both hands trapped; the only way he can get even one of them free results in the cables ensnaring his damn leg again, right up at the knee.

…well. Shit. At least he knows how he’s spending the afternoon it seems.

The bell over the front door jingles and he looks over, immediately shifting into customer-service mode despite the fact he’s still unquestionably stuck in the cable mess. He goes to spout his usual greeting on reflex but his brain short-circuits the moment he sees who’s just walked in the door: a chick. A _hot_ chick. Scuffed steel-cap combat boots, ripped black jeans, layered tanks, a messily styled black undercut and enough piercings to get her stuck to the side of a fridge. No sign of a spoiled brat or tryhard boyfriend in tow, either. She categorically, unequivocally, one-hundred-percent does not belong _anywhere_ near a shithole like Peragus – but things just got a lot less boring, so he’s not going to ask too many questions.

Christ, does he hate the uniform here. How is he meant to look cool enough to pick up in a fucking polo? He’s not _always_ tied up in cables…

Hot Chick looks vaguely familiar, more so when she meets his gaze and smirks at him. A groupie maybe? Nah, she’s too confident for that. Besides, it’s not like was ever in anything big enough for real groupies – he hasn’t played a gig since the Malachor V disaster, really, and he’d sooner spend the night with his own right hand again than bring up _that_ event to score. Not that he’s any more likely to score without bringing it up but hey, it’s the thought that counts.

Atton gives her his most disarmingly charming grin and runs his sole free hand through his faux-hawk (as if the polo and his current situation wasn’t lame enough to begin with). ‘Welcome to the best-stocked shithole this side of the city,’ he says, trying and failing to look like his situation is deliberate as he runs scales in his head to ground himself. ‘What can I help you with first?’

It’s probably for the best that this place is such a shithole, really. Otherwise the cameras might actually pick up sound.

Hot Chick saunters past a rack of beginner’s books, letting her gaze drift slowly around the store. ‘First? Bit presumptuous considering you’re still on the floor.’

‘I’ve got a knack for helping folks with problems they didn’t know they had,’ he replies, keeping his grin in place despite something in his mind insisting it knows her. She even _sounds_ familiar, somehow – not someone he’s known personally but someone he’s definitely heard speak before. He’s always had a good ear (thank _you_ classical musical training, even if he’d rather break all ten fingers than be caught dead playing concert piano again) and it’s normally useful. This time, though, it’s just annoying him. ‘And I’m, uh, only moderately stuck here. Damn cables have a mind of their own, you know?’

Hot Chick makes an exaggerated display of inspecting a set of picks. When she meets his gaze again it’s like he’s standing in a spotlight; his body’s warm, he’s the centre of attention and god be fucking damned if he can’t at least pretend to feel like an icon for a bit. He was always good with stage presence and it’s kind of nice to know he’s still got it even if it’s been way, way too long since he was anywhere near a stage (not that he was ever a real frontman anyway, but a guy can dream).

He switches from major scales to minors all the same. Fuck these cables.

‘So they’re not problems until you mysteriously bring them to attention?’

Atton shrugs, keeps his grin easy. ‘Your words, not mine. I’m pretty sure you’re not just here to check out the goods, though.’

She barks out a laugh and sets the picks back down. ‘Seems that’s more _your_ thing right now. Unless you’re staying down there because you actually _are_ stuck.’

‘Hey, I wasn’t… wait.’ Wait. Wait, wait, _wait_. The lighting’s shit but he’s well used to it by now and unless he’s _very_ badly mistaken, that tattoo on the back of her hand – no way. No mother-fucking _way_. There’s no way – but _oh_ , there is, and Atton’s kicking himself for not recognizing her sooner. No wonder his brain says she’s familiar. ‘You – you’re the bassist of Revanchist, aren’t you? You’re – holy _shit_ , you’re _Meetra_ _Surik_.’

Hot Chick’s smirk quickly fades to a scowl of irritation.

Well, it’s a confirmation, right? Though he probably could’ve handled that _way_ smoother. At least he can blame his lame looks on the stupid uniform policy.

Atton immediately raises his single free hand like he’s surrendering: ‘It’s cool, it’s cool – shit, sorry; that was out of line. I’m not gonna hound you for anything or tip off the paparazzi or whatever. Just surprised is all; you’re about the last person I’d expect to come into this dump. Would’ve thought the label kept you well-stocked, y’know?’

Surik watches him carefully. After a few seconds it seems she decides to take him at his word and she relaxes slightly. ‘Yeah, well, only in the studio. Personal shit stays personal, otherwise they’d go broke.’ Her expression darkens for a second. ‘Not like they’re covering anything at the moment anyway.’

Huh. Looks like those rumours of a break-up weren’t too far off the mark after all. One half-assed moment of consideration later, Atton mentally shrugs and decides to press his luck. He’s not about to _not_ flirt with her but there’s not a chance in hell that _Meetra Surik_ is going to accept an invitation to visit his shitty studio apartment for a quick fuck; he might as well at least catch himself up on the industry gossip. Might be worth something at the local dive bar later and it’s a hell of a lot more interesting than his mental scales. ‘So I take it that means you’re on a hiatus after all, huh?’

She jams her hands in her back pockets. ‘Legal says I’m not meant to answer that.’

‘Not even in an off-the-record chat to your friendly neighbourhood music-store dogsbody?’ He tries to untangle his other hand and fails again, miserably. ‘Can’t help you if I don’t know what you need helping with, right?’

‘I’m not sure you can help me from down there at all.’

He looks down at the mess of cables with a wince. Well… it wasn’t like he had any real dignity to begin with. ‘Ah… can’t really argue with that, huh? Tell you what – you help me out of this rat’s nest and I can help you find whatever it is you’ve wandered in for.’

She smirks again. ‘Or I could leave you there and help myself.’

‘Good luck figuring out the inventory system before I can roll over there. C’mon, give me a hand here – I’ll even throw on my staff discount to sweeten the deal.’ He offers her his most sheepish grin. ‘Not that you’d need it, but there’s not a lot else I can offer. Not on-shift at least.’

Surik barks out another laugh but, to his immense relief, heads over to the mess of cables all the same. ‘I’ll never say no to discounts. Just because it’s tax-deductible doesn’t mean I _like_ spending the money.’

‘Who does?’

After a few seconds of critically eyeing the tangled mess, Surik bends down and almost effortlessly tugs on an errant strand. There’s a sharp pull on his ankle but then like a magic trick the nest unwinds itself, leaving him merely draped in cables instead of ensnared in them. As if he didn’t feel like an idiot enough already.

‘Thanks,’ he says, and means it, even if his cheeks are turning just a little pink. He gets up to his feet as quickly as possible. ‘So, uh, my turn… what’re you after?’

‘Strings. Bass, obviously; long length, heavy gauge – tapewound if you’ve got any. And off the record – Alek’s a cunt.’

Atton snorts. ‘Most guitarists are – I’d know.’ He heads towards the wall of string packs. ‘Pretty sure we’ve still got some tapewound kicking around here somewhere. Don’t think we’ve got any colour-coated left though… any other materials you’re okay with?’

‘Stainless is fine; won’t be using them for a show anyway. Six would be great but four’s fine in a pinch.’ She watches him carefully as he flicks through the wall of stock; he almost feels like a hunk of meat being sized up by a butcher. Normally he’d be pretty down for that (if not actively suggesting a “back room” tour, away from things like cameras and the general public) but come on – this is Meetra Surik. She’s fucking rock _royalty_. Even if she hadn’t found him stuck in a cable pile, she’s got standards that washed-up never-beens like him just simply don’t meet. ‘Funny – you don’t look like a cunt.’

‘Most folks say I don’t look much like a guitarist either.’

‘Then they’re not looking at your hands.’

Atton glances at said hands. Okay, so his finger-pads are still grossly callused and he’s got plenty of old string-burn scars but – wait. She _noticed_ that?

He looks over his shoulder, raises an eyebrow at her. ‘Checking out the goods, huh?’

She gives him a smirk. If he didn’t know better, he’d call it flirtatious. ‘Your words, not mine. Any good at it?’

His old name’s in the “further credits” section of albums from no less than fifteen different bands in nine different genres, not counting the dozens of uncredited cash gigs and three legitimate orchestral credits. He’s credited as a main member of a small-time, long-defunct ska band plus a ring-in on a couple EPs without even _touching_ on the shit he did before he ditched classical instruments altogether. He was there at Malachor V too, on a dinky little side stage, doing his damn fucking best to make playing a keyboard look cool –

He’s not about to bring up the ghosts of the past so casually though, especially now that she seems at least a little less irritated by him, so he shrugs and answers, ‘Depends what you call good. I mean, _Into the Shadowlands_ was a little gnarly at first but it’s pretty cruisy once you’re good with hybrid picking, especially if you use two-hand tapping through the bridge. _Fuck Manaan_ – now, _that_ was an endurance workout, never mind that crazy second verse. Definitely doable though.’ He pulls a four-pack of long, stainless tapewound strings and turns to face her with a casual smile again. ‘No six-packs, sadly, unless I take off this shirt. Anything else I can get for you?’

Surik’s looking at him almost curiously now. She takes the proffered pack with a raised eyebrow of her own (not that he really cares, because her fingertips graze his own as she does so and while he’s not exactly a fan of Revanchist he _is_ a fan of her – Surik’s twelve-string bass shreds are fucking insane on both a technical and musical level and no, this stops here, he is _not_ going down the music nerd route again now).

‘Did you say you used hybrid picking for _Into the Shadowlands_?’ she eventually asks, as she heads for the counter.

‘Yeah. Way cheaper than the coke habit you’d need to pull those picks off straight. Alek might be, and I’m quoting you here, “a cunt” but his skill is off the charts.’ He rings her up with only a faint stab of disappointment that she’s not after anything else. Once she leaves he doubts he’ll ever see her again and, all jokes aside, he’d chop off his right thumb to get to spend a bit more time with her. She’s a lot more down-to-earth than he thought she’d be and though they’ve traded maybe a hundred words between them he feels a _connection_.

Though to be honest, that’s probably mostly because he was too drunk to wank last night and she’s the first actually hot chick to give him any kind of positive attention in months (unlike Surik, he does _not_ have standards; he’ll take what the fuck ever he can get). And realistically it’s probably for the best that this all ends here, before she finds out that he’s nothing more than a potty-mouthed pianist masquerading as a rocker.

Atton pulls a half-chewed biro from the stand by the cash register and offers it to her along with the receipt. He’s careful to keep the sour note from his voice. Back to scales, it seems. ‘Autograph, please. Promise I won’t hawk it online.’

Surik smirks, scribbles something on the receipt and before he can react she hooks a finger in his collar to pull him _way_ up in her shit. She smells like sweat and stale booze. Looks like she’s a weeknight drinker too, or at least as slack with her laundry as he is. ‘I want to see it. Nine tonight.’ She stuffs the scrap of paper into his chest pocket as he somehow forgets how many flats are in the key of E-minor ( _none_ , moron; the answer is none). ‘Amps, pedals and all the usual auxiliaries supplied; bring your axe and whatever else you need to impress me.’

Yeah fucking right. Shit like this doesn’t happen, not to him; he represses the urge to tell her to fuck off for getting his hopes up and instead goes for a sarcastic, ‘Framed Julliard degree? Beer? Condoms?’

She snorts and shoves his chest as she turns to leave. ‘Told you I had the usual auxiliaries covered, didn’t I? Don’t be late.’

Then the bell rings again and she’s gone, leaving Atton staring stupidly at the door as his brain fails to parse what the _fuck_ he just heard. Surely he just had a stroke or something. There’s no way, no _fucking_ way that Revanchist’s Meetra Surik just _flirted_ with him. Or, you know, invited him to play her own fucking band’s songs for her but he’s honestly way more shook up by the flirting thing.

He knows he’s not hideous and he’s sure as fuck capable of turning on the charm when he needs to but someone like her has _options_ and, well, a washed-up ex-Julliard poser working as a fucking music store clerk isn’t one of them. He’s wearing a _polo_ , for God’s sake.

When he pulls the receipt out of his pocket, though, there’s an address scrawled on the back of it. No phone number… but she signed it with an _x_.

Well… worst-case scenario, it’s not like he wouldn’t have ended up jerking off at home alone anyway, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure when I decided that all chapter titles for pieces in this AU would be song names or lyrics, but I'm rolling with it now. Apologies to Beck.


	2. You Give Love A Bad Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: here there be the sex.

_oh, you're a loaded gun, yeah_

_oh, there's nowhere to run_

_no one can save me_

_the damage is done_

~ "You Give Love A Bad Name", Bon Jovi

* * *

At fifteen minutes to nine that very same evening, Atton finds himself standing outside the address written on the back of Surik’s receipt: a somewhat grungy-looking studio in the midst of downtown. He’s not entirely convinced he’s not about to be jumped for his kidneys (or, you know, the customized Super Strat in the case over his shoulder, but these days he’s a bit more attached to his kidneys). Still, it’s hardly the worst place he’s ever rocked up at for an audition, so he hits the intercom and breaks out his most confident grin. “Fake it ‘til you make it” has been his modus operandi for years and he’s not about to change that now.

Being out of that stupid polo shirt definitely helps with that, to be fair. Between the studded jeans, combat boots, ribbed jacket and a bit of gel for his hair he at least looks _somewhat_ like a rocker now. It’s still a far cry from Surik’s effortlessly cool aesthetic but hey – he’s got to start somewhere, right?

Amazingly, Surik herself actually answers: ‘You’re early.’

‘I aim to please. Letting me in or do I have to play out here?’

The door unlocks with an audible _clunk_ and he pushes his way into the foyer with only a little trepidation. This is already further than he thought he’d be getting. Hopefully his improv skills are still up to snuff; he ran out of plans the moment he got through the door.

Well – realistic plans. Unless Surik’s secretly into lame-ass losers like him. At least he’s got his mental scales to fall back on if she’s that flirty _all_ the time.

Inside, he’s surprised to find a relatively modern-looking reception counter and waiting-room. There’s no lights on in the immediate area but down the hall a door’s open, spilling light into the corridor, and he can hear the faint hum of electrical equipment so he walks on down like he owns the place.

Surik’s there, of course. She’s still in the ripped jeans from earlier but she’s barefoot rather than in steel-caps and the layered singlets are now a single cropped tank, still black, showing off some pretty intricate ink over her ribs and a _really_ fucking good body. He suddenly feels a little overdressed and definitely feels far too mainstream for someone like her. Hopefully she doesn’t press him on his Julliard crack from earlier.

‘Wasn’t sure if you’d come,’ she says casually.

‘Are you kidding me? I’d have to be a braindead numbskull to ignore an invitation like this. Though I did kind of wonder if you weren’t setting me up to have my kidneys stolen in the alley outside.’ He unslings his guitar case, glancing around the room as carelessly as he can manage. It’s soundproofed, of course – not a recording booth but definitely a practice space of sorts – and his pulse rises as he notes the brand names on some of the equipment. Forget his kidneys; his whole body could be sold on the black market and it wouldn’t come close to covering the gear in this room. To say absolutely nothing of the unmistakable twelve-string chromed bass sitting on a stand across the room. ‘Uh… wow. This all yours?’ The noise of the door closing behind him makes him jump.

‘Might as well be. HK hates to let anyone touch his kits and Revan handles bookings and promo, so I manage the rest of our gear.’ She locks the door with a slight frown (as he belatedly remembers that soundproof is only soundproof if the door is closed and-or-sealed, _idiot_ ). ‘Well. Certain dickheads used to help with that too, but not so much anymore.’

‘And that’s why you asked me here, right? Alek two-point-oh?’

He says it as a joke; he intends it as a joke. Which is why when her response is a casual, ‘Yeah, pretty much,’ he just about fucking drops dead on the spot.

Surik smirks at his slack-jawed stare. ‘What else did you think you were here for?’

He actually doesn’t have an answer for that – not one that he’s willing to verbalise, anyway. He closes and opens his mouth a few times in quick succession like a goldfish before finally remembering how to speak. ‘I – but – _the fuck_? You’re kidding me, right? There’s no way, no _shitting_ way you’re actually auditioning me to slot in for Alek of fuck-mothering Revanchist. Tell me you’re after my dick or something else like that; it’d be more realistic.’

‘Nah, it’s not an audition.’ For a moment he’s unsure whether to be blissfully relieved or horribly disappointed before she continues, ‘Revanchist is done. Alek’s out of the band, took half the IP with him; we’re reforming and need a new guitarist. Someone capable of covering the classics and up for some new shit. You told me you could play _Into the Shadowlands_ without a coke habit – I want to see the proof.’ As he tries and fails to parse her words in a way that make sense, she adds, ‘Impress me enough, the gig’s yours. Pending approval from the others, of course.’

He’s died and gone to some kind of heaven-hell limbo world where nothing makes sense and he’s being set up for an eternity of torment. The beer he had with dinner was spiked and this is nothing more than a fantasy as he lies frothing at the mouth alone in his shitty studio apartment. There is just no way – no shitting, fucking, _cunting_ way – that Meetra Surik is standing in front of him, telling him Revanchist is finished and _he’s_ her pick to replace Alek, and all he’s got to do is impress her by playing one of her own damn songs.

At least he’s good at _sounding_ the part of a hard-ass even if the only time he’s been in a cop car was as a five-year-old kid who’d lost his mum at the mall.

Surik’s smile is equal parts sweet and sadistic. She knows _exactly_ what she’s doing to him, the bitch, and for the life of him he can’t figure out if it makes her more attractive to him or the most gorgeous damned woman on the planet. ‘Lost your words?’

He forces himself to swallow before speaking. ‘You must be fucking desperate, huh?’

She snorts, tosses her head towards his case. ‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’ Her expression darkens slightly. ‘Look – like I said, Alek’s a cunt but he’s a _talented_ cunt, and between the coke and his fingers we’re having a rough time finding anyone to fill the gap. Well – anyone that isn’t already signed. Legal’s billing overtime as it is.’

‘Wow, just tolerate? Setting a high bar for someone whose name you don’t even know. Shit, you just took me on my word I could play to begin with – what if I’d just been blowing smoke out my ass to try and impress you?’

The smile hardens into a smirk. ‘Figured you just wouldn’t show up… or at least you wouldn’t bring a guitar. Tell me a bit about yourself while you get set up, why don’t you?’

Well. No going back now, huh?

Atton pops open the case and begins to rig everything up, still not really believing it. She’s already got a pretty fancy-looking multi effects pedal and amp set up for him – he counts eight footswitches and if he’s got the model right, the pedal alone is worth more than a month of his rent before he even looks at the rest of the gear – and he tries to let himself relax into familiar patterns as he runs his mouth. It’s easier than he thought it would be.

‘Well… not much to say, really. The name’s Atton, Atton Rand. I’ve played a few shows here and there, been part of a few different gigs but never really found anything consistent that worked out. So I picked up shifts at Peragus while I figured out what to do with myself. It’s not much but it seemed like less of a waste than bartending, you know?’ He gives the pedal a few experimental presses and is pleased to find it’s running a standard layout – delays, reverbs, modulations and distortions, all tweaked to fit Revanchist’s typical sound. ‘Plus, staff discount makes it easy to keep my gear up to snuff.’

Surik listens patiently, never once losing that grin of hers. ‘Atton Rand, hmm… I _like_ that name.’

A faint shiver runs below his belt.

She doesn’t mean anything by it, he tells himself; she’s just trying to throw him off his game. After all, if he can’t perform under the pressure of just one person, how can he be expected to perform in front of the rest of the band, let alone crowds of thousands?

He stands with a shake of his head, slinging his guitar over his shoulder. He doesn’t bother pretending to tune it any more than necessary (she’s skilled enough that she’d absolutely know he was putting it on) and instead turns to face her, his own expression set and ready. She’s already set up an auto-scroller with some familiar sheet music for him. He doesn’t need it, not really, but he’s grateful for it all the same. ‘So, last chance… you’re serious about this?’

‘Absolutely.’ She perches atop an unplugged amp, one foot propped on the corner in a far too suggestive manner. Fucking tease. ‘So – _Into the Shadowlands_ , from the second verse through the start of the last chorus. Show me what you can do with those fingers of yours, Rand.’

It’s the first time he’s been grateful for his classical training in a very long time. Years of being taught to perform straight-faced in front of all manner of critique makes performing for Surik without embarrassing himself far easier than it should be.

Of course, it _really_ helps that _Into the Shadowlands_ was the first proper song for electric guitar he ever taught himself and basically the only thing he played for the month and a half it took him to nail it. He could play it backwards, upside-down and in his sleep. Playing it standing in front of one of its authors is a little different, true, but still pretty fucking cruisy, all things considered – especially with sheet music.

Surik watches him play without comment. Her smile continues to grow until he finishes (with an unnecessary vibrato and far too big a flourish but showing off a little seems like the right thing to do here).

‘Satisfied?’ he asks, feeling at least slightly more confident in the whole situation.

She rises to her feet easily. Smoothly. ‘It’s a start,’ she says casually. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Rand; I’m impressed so far. There’s more to the gig than just technical skill though.’

He recalls her earlier tirade. ‘What, you want me to pick up a coke habit too? Gonna have to draw the line at shaving my head or wearing that ridiculous red jacket.’

She’s near enough to flick his ear and she does so. He exaggerates his flinch, but only a little. ‘Smart-ass. No – I want to see how you perform under pressure.’

‘I work retail, Surik. What more proof do you need?’

She stops directly in front of him, _far_ too close for comfort – she’s closer now than she was even back in the shop and he has to fight the urge to step back from her. As his pulse keeps rising she takes one long, tattooed finger, and traces a line from his jaw to the nape of his neck.

Atton swallows. Hard. ‘…Surik? Getting some mixed messages, here.’

‘Mixed messages? Like what?’

The finger traces lower, over his shirt and his chest, until it rests both delightfully and _really fucking uncomfortably_ low on his waist. He’s never been so glad to be holding his guitar. Though he’s starting to wish he’d ditched his jacket. ‘Like the fact that you’re, uh – um – I mean, is this _normally_ how you audition people?’

‘I told you, it’s not an audition.’ She leans in and his breath catches when he feels _her_ breath on his cheek, moist and warm. ‘Well. Not for the band, anyway. Feel free to say no, of course, but –’

‘Yes.’ The word’s escaped his mouth before he has the chance to even think twice.

Surik smirks. ‘You didn’t even let me finish.’

He grips the neck of his guitar a little tighter. Wood and metal are a much, much safer place for his hands than anywhere else right now. Old habits die hard though, so what comes out of his mouth is a _far_ too cocky-sounding, ‘That’s not usually a problem I have.’

She snorts, rests a hand on the body of his guitar. ‘Might hold you to that later. Right now, though…’ She reaches for the scroller and swipes through to bring up a different piece: _Fuck Manaan_. ‘Let’s check that endurance of yours. Whole thing, go to whoa. And just to make shit explicitly clear – you say stop, we stop, no questions and no impact on the actual gig. You’re cute, Atton, don’t get me wrong, but we need a guitarist more than I need a new side project.’

He should take her up on that offer. He really, really should stop this here, _especially_ if he’s actually going to be presented to Revan and HK and the rest of the band formerly known as Revanchist – he’s no idiot; he knows full well how poorly band relationships tend to go. That’s not even considering the fact that if she ever finds out he’s a fucking ex-Julliard pianist she’ll laugh him out of the country.

She feels… different, though. Like she’s genuinely interested. And damned if she’s not _really_ fucking hot in that crop top.

Apparently Surik’s got a thing for washed-up never-beens after all. He always was a lucky bastard.

So Atton sets his hands in preparation for the opening riff of _Fuck Manaan_ , adjusts his stance to give himself just a _little_ more room downstairs, and gives her a grin that’s far more confident than he feels. ‘All yours, then,’ he says, as casually as he can manage. ‘And, uh – I’m clean, if that matters to you.’

She smiles, nudges his guitar a little further to the side, and starts up the auto-scroller.

Four bars in and her hand’s at his hip, her thumb drawing lazy circles inside his hipbone, and Atton begins to wonder if he’s not in way over his head. _Fuck Manaan_ is one of the longest songs in Revanchist’s catalogue – seven minutes twenty-eight, with four timing changes and seven different keys – and not only has it been a while since he seriously played but the angle his guitar’s now on is already a little uncomfortable for his strumming arm. Also there’s whatever the fuck Surik’s got in mind to do to him to consider (and he seriously doubts she’s going to pull the plug halfway through; he’s here for the long haul, one way or another).

Fake it ‘til you make it though, right?

He twists his upper body to take some of the strain off his arm and keeps playing. He’s careful to keep his eyes very, very strictly focused on the tablet.

Halfway through the first verse Surik’s fingers drift inwards. He almost misses a hammer-on when she actually makes contact with his cock, even through his jeans – he’s focused on the music, yeah, but the dumb caveman part of his brain is freaking the fuck out all the same. And, yeah, look, it’s not like he’s _never_ played hard or never had someone play with _him_ while he’s strumming, but this is _Meetra fucking Surik_ with her hand on his prick.

Maybe he did die at Malachor after all. Lord fucking knows he sure wasn’t going to heaven after that and this is far, far more of a reward than he’s ever earned.

Atton keeps playing, though, ignoring the wicked grin he can see out of the corner of his eye.

When he hits the first chorus Surik starts undoing his belt. It’s a welcome relief for all of the ten seconds it takes her to get it undone. His mind catches up with things around the same time that she goes for his zipper and then _Jesus cunting Christ_ , her hand is _warm_ , and a couple notes cop some accidental vibrato as she pulls him free and begins stroking.

Okay, so maybe this isn’t exactly heaven after all. Heaven wouldn’t be this stressful. Then again, he kind of doubts hell would feel this fucking _good_.

Atton exhales through his teeth and keeps playing. The first of the key changes is coming up and the second verse is a mess of staccato and legato switches; he needs all the focus he can get right now. Even if he’d really, really rather pay attention to the thumb swirling over his head or the fingernails lightly running up his shaft.

Three bars after the key change and in the middle of the first and worst staccato-legato run, Surik’s head disappears from the edge of his view. Her hand’s still on his cock so he’s not really too worried until he feels a warm breeze at his crotch and – oh, he is _fucked_.

Well – not literally, not yet, but Christ on a shitting trike he’s about to wish he was.

For a moment it’s like he’s outside his body looking in. Here he is, a washed-up never-been ex-Julliard concert pianist masquerading as an experienced lead guitarist, playing _Fuck Manaan_ off an auto-scroller while Meetra Surik of Revanchist is kneeling in front of him and about three seconds off sucking his dick.

How the shit did he get here?

A warm tongue runs itself over his head, her tongue stud almost catching in his slit, and Atton has to exhale hard as he’s pulled back to Earth. He’s already turned at least two staccatos into slides and while he kind of doubts she’ll stop if he fucks up too much he really does want to put on a good showing for her. He doesn't give too much of a shit about the gig with the rest of Revanchist but a private gig with _her_ \- now that, he's _very_ invested in getting signed for.

Then she engulfs him in her mouth, warm and wet, and the second chorus of _Fuck Manaan_ kicks off with a surprise glissando to high D.

At least it sounds kind of cool, even if it’s definitely not in the sheet music. Maybe she’ll appreciate the improv. He certainly is.

Somewhere around the second key change she pulls his sack free too and starts fondling with her free hand. Not too roughly, not too softly, and far too pleasantly given everything else that’s going on. He’s a little too distracted to remember exactly where he is in the piece so he risks a glance at the timer in the bottom corner of the screen – fucking _shit_ , still three minutes to go? God, he’s so fucked. _So_ fucked. Surik’s been moving in time with the beat (even through the timing changes, though he’s not sure what else he expected given she fucking helped write the thing) and he’d be lying through his teeth to say he doesn’t really, _really_ enjoy the feeling of her tongue studs over his cock. Her mouth in general, really. And for all the cracks he’s made about bassists in the past, her fingers are fucking magic.

Atton bites his lip as Surik pulls back, runs her tongue the full length of his shaft. He wants so badly to look down to see it but he knows if he looks away from the auto-scroller he’s completely done for.

Three minutes. Not even three minutes. Then he can look (and hopefully touch) to his heart’s content. Just another five key changes, another two time changes and another three mother-fucking minutes.

Surik pumps him slowly as she takes one of his balls in her mouth, sucking gently as she rolls her tongue over him.

Fuck, he’s glad he had the foresight to shave. He just wishes he’d also had the foresight to jerk off before heading over. Things would be _so_ much easier right now if he had.

Atton grits his teeth as he starts on the final bridge. It’s a cunt of a segment at the best of times, never mind when he’s got one of the song’s writers glued to his crotch like a vacuum cleaner, but he’s made it this far and he is _not_ fucking up now. Five key changes and two time changes in forty-eight seconds – he’s got this. Well, as long as Surik keeps up with the timing shifts; he doesn’t think he’s got the control left to keep up with the scroller over her.

He can’t help but let out a muffled gasp when Surik moves her attentions back to his head. Shredding bass is apparently just one of her many talents. The very fucking _second_ this whore of a song is done with he’s ditching his guitar and diving right the fuck in to finding out what else she’s good at.

You know. If that’s what she’s after from him.

Christ, he really fucking hopes she is.

The moment the big set of key changes start Surik takes him deep and Atton groans aloud when she starts _humming_ – the _bitch_. He hits an accidental sharp and winces but forces himself to keep going despite the building pressure in his groin – he’s almost there. He’s almost there. He’s _almost there_ , dammit, and he’s not going to blow ( _any_ of it) now.

Though _shit_ , he’d love to see her with a face full of his spunk. Or a mouthful, even. Or –

He shakes his head; later. Absolutely later… unless a better opportunity arises. God, he hopes it does.

As the final stretch approaches she goes for broke, gripping his ass for leverage as she pulls him into her mouth almost maniacally (still in time, though; she’s a professional, after all). He stares at the scroller like he’s trying to burn a hole through it. He’s not entirely sure he’s actually seeing the music anymore, truth be told, but if he looks down at the siren on his cock he’s going to lose it so he hisses his appreciation through gritted teeth and wills his hands to remain steady to the end.

Three bars.

Two bars.

One –

‘Fucking _Christ_ ,’ he groans, shoving his guitar to hang on his back as he threads his hands through her hair. His fingers are trembling and it’s only partly the fault of that stupid song. ‘ _Shit_. You – _haah_ –’

As he finally looks down she pulls back, giving him a hungry grin. Her lips are spit-slick, glinting in the light, and _god_ is he glad he didn’t look down before because even this is enough to make him want to blow his load.

‘Colour me impressed, Rand,’ she says, like she’s not on her knees, rubbing her cheek against his prick. ‘Technique, endurance _and_ focus. You’re starting to look like you might just be the full package.’

He nearly goes to pull her back onto his cock before remembering that this is Meetra Surik, not some random dive-bar denizen, and instead lets his hand slide down to cup her cheek. It takes him a couple seconds to put the words together but eventually he replies, ‘Seems like you’re taking more than just a look there.’

She gives a last lick to his shaft before rising to her feet. Apparently her bra’s either the thinnest thing known to man or she was never wearing one in the first place; he can _see_ her arousal pressed tight against the crop and he has to fight the urge to run his hands over her breasts, to tweak and toy and play with her the way she played with him.

‘Didn’t hear you complaining,’ she says, as she heads toward the amp stack. ‘Put that thing down. You’re clearly pretty good with your fingers… how about with that smart mouth of yours?’

He shrugs off his guitar eagerly (jacket, too – he’s plenty warm enough now). When he notices she’s already undone the button and fly of her jeans, it takes him two attempts to get his rig back on the stand. ‘Just over two octaves personally, but I’ve been known to get three or four out of people if I really put my mind to it.’

Surik leans against the stack casually, one thumb hooked through an unused belt-loop to reveal the top of an unsurprisingly black (but surprisingly racy) thong. ‘Setting a pretty high bar for yourself there,’ she says, crooking a finger to beckon him over.

Oh. Right. He’s still standing here with his cock out like an idiot.

He doesn’t bother tucking himself back in; it’s the right call apparently because she pulls him against her the moment he’s in range, one hand on his hip and the other on the back of his neck, and he must’ve been dripping like a faucet because he can taste himself on her lips, her tongue, her _teeth_. She grinds herself against him, moaning into his mouth and it’s all he can do to pull himself back so he can start his trip down her body.

‘Well,’ he murmurs into her collarbone, as he works her crop up for a better angle (and he was part way right; she _is_ wearing a bra but “material” is a hell of a strong word for whatever it’s made out of. It’s black; that’s about all he has the focus to care too much about). ‘I know for a fact you’ve got a comfortable three already… I figure four isn’t _too_ much of a push.’

Her reply cuts off to a breathy moan when he pinches at her nipple. Emboldened, he tweaks again, a little harder, and then stoops down to get his mouth in on the action when she arches against his touch. ‘Down,’ she finally gasps, pushing at the top of his head almost desperately as he swirls his tongue over the hardened peak. ‘Fucking _tease_.’

 _She_ was the one that decided to blow him while he was strumming his way through _Fuck Manaan_ but he kind of doesn’t really care to argue the point too much. He drops to his knees obediently and more than a little eagerly, burying his face in her crotch as he clumsily helps her out of her jeans. He can taste her through the fabric already.

Her fingers tangle in his hair as she grinds herself against his mouth; her breath is stuttering, catching in her throat, and she keens when he slides a hand up the back of one thigh. ‘Rand…’

He really should get those panties properly out of the way but that would mean he’d have to pull back, have to pause, and he doesn’t want to stop for a second in case this all comes screeching to a halt. Instead he hauls her left foot up to rest on his right shoulder as he pulls the fabric to the side. She drops her knee out eagerly for all of half a second before his first lick – broad and firm, the full length of her uncovered lips – sees her jerk it in again, squeezing against the side of his head as she moans her appreciation.

Atton grins. Well, kind of. His mouth’s a little too occupied to really call it a grin.

He has the patience for a few more long strokes before he settles in at her clit, alternating short sucks and swirls of his tongue. Her fingers dig into the back of his skull with every suck; soon the foot on his shoulder has become a leg half-wrapped around his neck, and when he reaches his right hand around to stroke her as he slides his tongue properly inside her folds, her groan of ‘More,’ is loud enough he could almost think she was plugged into the amp herself.

Emboldened, he goes to add his left hand to the mix. He gets the tip of a finger in with his tongue before the damned thong starts sliding back into place. With a muttered curse he starts fiddling with the fabric, trying to find a way to wedge them aside –

‘Fuck it, just rip them,’ she groans, her voice rasping and breathless. ‘Just fucking _rip_ them, Rand –’

Never let it be said he doesn’t know how to follow instructions. He moves back to suck at her clit – part an insincere apology, part distraction – and after failing to tear through the elastic on the side, manages to rip the back string from the waistband with a sudden burst of effort. She’s clawing the material out of his way before he’s even got his hands back in place and then he’s got two fingers and a tongue deep inside her, his other hand stroking either side of her clit, as she comes apart beneath his touch.

‘ _Yes_ ,’ she whimpers. ‘Yes, yes, _fuck_ , just like that, just like that –’

He feels her walls clench around him as she throws her head back with a wild cry. Her leg squeezes, locking him against her, and he shifts his timing to match the pulses of her orgasm. Lower down he can feel precum trailing down his cock and he twitches as he finds himself imagining what it’d feel like to have his dick inside her instead right now – fuck, he _really_ hopes she’s after an encore. The blowjob was phenomenal but her body’s addictive and he’s pretty fucking sure he’s only getting a single shot at this so he wants to make the most of it.

Her grip on him slowly relaxes as she winds down. She’s still breathing heavily, chest heaving; her crop’s still shoved up above her breasts, bra still pulled down beneath them and _god_ does the view from down here look good. Atton waits until her eyes flutter open before licking his own fingers clean, one at a time, with one hell of a smug grin on his face. ‘The verdict?’

She hauls him up, drags him in for another kiss. He knows she’ll taste herself on his lips and wonders if she likes it as much as he does.

‘Unsure if I’d call that four clean octaves,’ she murmurs when they break for air. She’s grinning, though; her eyes are half-lidded, her gaze still hungry, and she pulls at the hem of his shirt eagerly.

He lets her pull it off then digs his fingers into the crease of her ass, pulls her against his hardness, delighting in the hiss of overstimulated pleasure it coaxes from her as she runs her fingers down his chest, his stomach. ‘Should I pull out the rest of my repertoire then?’

‘God, _yes_.’ She threads a hand between them to grip his prick. ‘Emphasis on the pull out.’

‘Don’t want me to get a –’

‘You an altar boy or something? You said you were clean, right?’

He did and he is, and he probably has an argument for why he still should get a rubber, but he’s not having much luck putting together a logical argument. Or coming up with reasons to argue in the first place. She’s already gently rubbing his head against the slick lips of her cunt and – look, the very idea of being raw inside her is hot enough to effectively drive any dissenting thoughts from his brain. And realistically it’s not like she’s after _his_ money.

Atton thrusts into her grip, shifts them back a little so her weight’s on the stack. ‘Yeah, I am – just checking. Assuming you’re –’

‘Yeah, clean.’ She bites her lip as she spreads her folds, slides the tip of his cock just barely into her lips. ‘Haa – anyone ever tell you that there’s – _shit_ – such a thing as too much of a good thing?’

He peppers kisses down her neck, along the underside of her jaw; her pulse is still racing beneath his lips. ‘You’re the one at the controls here, Surik. No rush.’

‘Beg to fucking differ. I want this _yesterday_.’

Despite himself he can’t help but thrust just the tiniest bit into her– she inhales sharply and for a second he worries he’s gone too fast despite her self-admitted eagerness. But when she releases his cock it’s to grab his ass and _pull_ so with his own hiss of pleasure he sheaths himself in her cunt.

Yeah, he must’ve died at Malachor for sure. Not that he gives a single flying fuck about that now.

‘ _Fuck_ , Surik,’ he groans, as her fingernails dig into his sides. She’s warm and slick and why the _fuck_ did he ever want to argue against this?

It takes a mammoth effort to not just start up where her blowjob left off but he manages it, somehow, and holds himself inside her as she whispers muffled expletives into his neck. He takes advantage of the pause to unhook her bra to get a proper squeeze of one of her breasts, circling his thumb over her nipple. When her expletives shift toward moans he draws back for a slow, deep stroke – when she groans and nods, eyes still squeezed shut in pleasure, he nips at her earlobe and begins slowly fucking her.

Soon she’s rocking her hips back to meet his thrusts. Her groans have gotten louder, the fingernails in his sides pressing almost deep enough to cut. ‘Christ, Rand, you – _haa_ – fuck, harder, _please_ –’

The amp’s already starting to feel unsteady so he pulls out and spins her around, one hand on her back to bend her over the stack instead. Before she’s even finished her noise of protest he’s back inside her, hands on hips, and this time he doesn’t start slow. She asked for it, after all.

With a moan of appreciation Surik grips the edge of the stack and arches her back. The leverage is a bit wonky but she pushes against him as hard as she can, meeting each snap of his hips with a thrust of her own. When he pulls back for a deep drive he glimpses his cock, slick with her juices to the point of almost glistening in the studio downlights – shit, she’s beautiful.

Atton trails his fingers up her spine until he’s at the nape of her neck. He leans forward and between thrusts, whispers into her ear, ‘So what’s your stance on hair-pulling?’

Even at this angle he can still see the wide grin that spreads across her face. ‘Same as your dick… the harder, the better.’

Even buried inside her he can feel his cock twitch violently. From the sound she makes he knows she feels it too. ‘Fuck, you’re amazing.’ He wraps her hair around his fist and jerks back, his groan nearly matching hers in volume as her walls clamp down around him. ‘So fucking amazing.’ It’s not the word he wants to use, not really, but he met her for the first time not even twelve hours ago and he’s not so much of a loser as to start tossing out things like _gorgeous_ and _perfect_ right off the bat. _Especially_ not with someone like her.

He tightens his grip on her hair and pulls harder still, busying his stupid mouth with leaving marks across her shoulders. She reaches one hand blindly behind her; her fingernails leave pale pink scratches down his side and he thinks almost giddily that there’ll be _proof_ , wishes she’d dig in just a little harder, wishes for just a little bit of pain to help stave off the building coil deep in his core. When that doesn't magically happen he slides his free hand around to rub at her clit - her groans instantly start picking up, her breathing growing erratic. He’s reaching the end of his tether himself so the most he can manage is a stuttered, ‘You – _god_ –’

‘I’m close.’ Her eyes are closed again, her knuckles white where they’re gripping the edge of the stack. ‘I’m – I’m – _fuck_ , so – haa, _aah_ –’

He doubles down and goes for broke, pulling her hair hard enough to almost lift her off the stack completely as his thrusts become frantic. ‘Surik – shit –’

‘Rand – _fuck_!’ Her cry is shrill enough to be a scream this time.

Atton crushes his eyes shut and grits his teeth as she clenches around him in ecstasy; it’s _so_ much better than he thought, so tight and wet and slick and shit, _shit_ he can’t stop, he’s going to – he’s going –

He pulls out with a noise that’s half-groan, half-snarl and barely gets his hand to his dick before he spills over the small of her back, his shaft pressed up against the cleft of her ass and his vision filled with stars. Reflexive shudders run through his body as he strokes out the last drops of his orgasm; by the time he opens his eyes she’s come back to Earth as well, her gaze lust-drunk and satisfied.

He makes sure she’s got her arms beneath her before he untangles his grip from her hair. The words are harder than usual to find but he manages it in the end: ‘Fuck, Surik.’

In all fairness, it’s not like he studied _languages_ at Julliard.

She looks back over her shoulder. When her gaze alights upon the pool of cum on her back, on the droplet slowly creeping down the crack of her ass, she grins tiredly. ‘Sounds about right. You… _hngh_.’ She shivers. ‘Full package for fucking sure.’ She directs him to a pack of tissues on a nearby stand and waits patiently as he cleans his mess up; she starts a little when he goes to clean her up, too, but makes a noise that he vaguely interprets as appreciation and doesn’t stop him.

‘Guess I’m going home commando,’ she says, hooking a finger in the remnants of the thong still hanging around her waist. ‘Ah well. Totally worth it.’

‘Like I said, I aim to please.’ He helps her upright (not that she needs it but she certainly doesn’t seem to mind) and risks a quick kiss to her cheek as she takes a shaky step away from the amp.

He’s not stupid. Mind-blowing sex or not she’s still Meetra Surik and he’s still a nobody. As much as he really, _really_ wishes otherwise, it is what it is. He might’ve done well enough for an encore but realistically he’s going to be remembering this night as the best of his life for the rest of his life… and nothing more.

But then she smiles – like she expected it – and instead of going for her jeans, drapes her arms around his neck and leans into him instead. ‘And you follow through, too.’ She doesn’t kiss him but she does rest her head on his shoulder, face in his neck, and as he carefully wraps his arms around her she gently twines her fingers in the back of his hair.

Probably just post-sex endorphins. Maybe. He makes the executive decision to not question it and just take what he can because _shit_ , it’s nice. His fingers trace gentle spirals over her back as he smiles stupidly at nothing much at all. ‘You should see what I can do when there’s no clothes in the way.’

Surik chuckles into his shoulder. ‘That an offer?’

‘If you want it to be.’

‘Hn.’ She _does_ kiss him at that; a feather-light press of lips to the underside of his jaw. ‘And here I was thinking I was the one making the offers here.’

Right; this mockery of an audition actually did start with a grander purpose. He swallows. ‘So… not a one-time thing, then?’

‘Not unless you’re planning on doing a runner.’

Wouldn’t be the first time but he’s _definitely_ not about to tell her that. ‘No. No; I’m, uh, more than interested in sticking around. No question. For whatever you want me for.’

‘Good.’ She arches her back as she stretches against him. ‘So I’m thinking we’ll introduce you to Revan and HK tomorrow, see what the go is there. I’m eighty, ninety percent sure the gig’ll be yours but obviously the full band’s got final say.’

His stomach churns. ‘Uh… yeah, that sounds… mildly terrifying, but my schedule’s clear.’ It’s not; he’s rostered nine til five but he’s got no compunctions about calling in sick if she wants him for something else. ‘And, uh, about this –’

‘Leave the politics and personalities to me.’ She plants a kiss on his cheek. ‘Just turn up, play like you did tonight, don't take shit if it's not warranted and I’ll handle everything else.’

‘And if they ask why I’m popping a boner during _Fuck Manaan_?’

Another kiss, this time on the edge of his mouth. Her lips curve up into a wicked smile. ‘Like I said… leave it to me.’

He cups her cheek to meet her next kiss with his own lips. It’s far from the reassurance he wants but look, right here and now, he’s willing to trust her at her word. If it all falls apart tomorrow he’ll at least have had tonight and maybe - just maybe - this could be the start of something more. ‘I’ll hold you to it.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I may end up adding a third chapter to cover the actual audition, with Revan and HK, but probably not until after I've gotten Ep8 up for _conscience_. For now I'll call it two chapters complete and update as things play out.~~ Chapter 3 is up, well before Ep8 is, and I'm not even the slightest bit ashamed.


	3. Becoming the Bull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for bad language and not even mayonnaise levels of implied violence, implied drug use and implied sex. Sorry if you made it through the last chapter and expected more graphic stuff - gotta fit the worldbuilding in somewhere.

_there is so much at stake_

_I stumble, I lose my place_

_pride and arrogance surrounded by sin_

_destiny takes its hold_

_fight it or let it go_

_but I choose how today will end_

~ "Becoming the Bull", Atreyu

* * *

Out of all the stupid ideas he’s followed through on, this has to be the stupidest.

The very next day, less than twenty-four hours after he first met Surik in Peragus, he’s back outside the grungy studio with his guitar case over his shoulder. Despite the previous night’s activities ( _very_ confidence-inducing, those) he feels even more nervous than he did yesterday. Ironically the nerves have next to no relation to his chances of getting the spot – years and years of dealing with audition rejections and performance critiques mean that he’s well used to repressing and/or ignoring _those_ feelings, and the fact that he was balls-deep in one of the people auditioning him just yesterday means he feels pretty good about his chances there.

No. What’s got his stomach churning is the worry that someone’s going to pry just a little too deep, ask him a question that he can’t answer without revealing he wasn’t always Atton Rand, alt-grunge guitarist, and the whole house of cards will come crashing down. He’s got exactly one tattoo (the result of a lost bet) and no piercings – it’s already going to be obvious he’s not on their level even before the fact that his wardrobe includes colours that aren’t just shades of black. About the only thing going for him is the fact that there’s no way in _hell_ than anyone in Revanchist would have cared enough about his old band to recognize him from Malachor, never mind fucking Julliard.

He exhales, runs his hand through his faux-hawk, and dials the intercom just like he did yesterday. ‘Atton Rand, here as requested.’

The door clunks open without a response.

 _That’s_ reassuring.

The reception desk is still empty but his heart soars to see Surik lounging against the front counter, an easy smile on her face. For a moment he thinks she hasn’t changed out of yesterday’s clothes but no; these jeans aren’t ripped in the same places and the black top is a tank tee instead of a crop. ‘You’re early again.’

He shrugs. The smile on his face is only kind-of forced. ‘Worked out pretty well yesterday.’ He approaches her hesitantly, not reaching to touch her. Thankfully she either understands his uncertainty or just doesn’t give a shit and pushes off the desk to plant a kiss on his lips; he takes the opportunity to embrace her like he originally wanted to, returning the kiss with just a little extra interest. Not too much, though – he’ll save that for later. Hopefully later, anyway.

‘Guess it’s one way to ensure you’re here on time,’ she says with a casual wink. Before he can relax too much she’s turned on her heel and taken him by the wrist. ‘Right; game face on. You remember what I told you?’

‘That I’m the full package and great with my fingers?’

She snorts. ‘I’m sure that’d go down well on the guys.’

The guys. So casual, so familiar, like she’s not talking about two living legends of rock, like _she’s_ not a living legend of rock. _God_ , he doesn’t belong here. She seems to think he does though, and if it keeps him in her good books then he’ll do his damn best to act like he does. ‘Hey, I don’t know what they’re into.’ Before she decides to push the topic too far off-course he gives the expected answer: ‘Yeah, I remember. Don’t take shit needlessly but don’t start fights either, don’t push the Alek thing unless I want to start a fight, and if HK throws a drumstick at me I’m not to throw it back unless I want to start a fight.’ He pauses, digesting what he’s just recited. ‘How much of rehearsal time is spent fighting, anyway?’

‘Depends what you define as fighting. Arguing, yeah, plenty. Physical shit hasn’t come into play since… since the cunt left.’ She leads him past the room they fucked in yesterday (thank _Christ_ ; he’d been low-key dreading the idea of keeping a straight face if Revan or HK leaned on the damned amp stack), down the corridor, almost to the end.

Well, it’s kind of a relief to know that at least his old band weren’t the only ones that were incapable of behaving like adults during rehearsals. Also kind of worrying to get tacit confirmation of exactly where Alek got that gnarly facial scar from but he knows better than to pry right now.

She stops outside the last door on the left. ‘Don’t fuck this up, okay?’ she says, not unkindly, and before he can give her a glib response she’s kicked the door open and shoved him in.

Like yesterday, he finds himself in a soundproofed room but this one’s far emptier – just enough gear for a bare-bones rehearsal. One drum kit (with all the tricks plus a stand for spare sticks; apparently HK’s habit of breaking them extends even off-stage), amps for a bass and two guitars, effects pedals for the same, a couple mic stands and one ancient-looking mixer. HK’s already sitting at his kit, sticks drumming against his own knees; the man of the hour himself, Revan, is leaning disinterestedly on the far wall.

Unsurprisingly Atton’s the only one wearing anything not black. Except for the tattoo ink, of course, and HK’s trademark red contact lenses. Apparently the drummer’s more devoted to his aesthetic than Atton gave him credit for.

‘Atton Rand,’ she announces, like that means anything to anyone. ‘Unsigned, no prior commitments, nailed the breakdown of _Into the Shadowlands_ without drugs and made it through the entirety of _Fuck Manaan_ without trouble.’

HK spins a stick in his palm without looking at it. ‘He looks like someone you would bully for lunch money, Surik.’

‘Good thing my mum loved me enough to pack lunches then, huh?’ he fires back casually – fuck, he hopes it comes off as casually. And he _really_ hopes that that’s an appropriate level of smart-assery. ‘Thought you were after a guitarist, not a poser.’

The drummer raises an eyebrow. The faintest hint of a smile creases his lips.

‘I already told him not to throw the sticks back,’ Surik says, closing the door behind her. ‘You peg anything, you’re getting it yourself.’

HK folds his arms. ‘Spoilsport.’

‘No, _productive_ ,’ Revan says, finally deigning to look over at Atton. Without his trademark sunglasses on he looks almost exhausted – the bags under his eyes are well past carry-on limits and he almost seems to be lagging behind reality. Either he’s coming off one hell of a night or the whole Alek thing’s been hitting him harder than Surik alluded to. ‘Where’d you find him?’

‘Peragus – you know that little dingy place off Twelfth and Main over the south side? Talked a big game for someone stuck in a nest of cables but more than followed through when I pushed him on it.’

‘You could’ve left the cable bit out,’ Atton mutters. The rest, though…

Revan cricks his neck. ‘If you’re so good, why aren’t you playing for anyone?’

That, at least, he’s prepared for. ‘No point staying somewhere you don’t fit anymore. Things didn’t change, I did, so I figured I’d take a break from gigs for a while.’

‘That code for you fucked up and were forcibly retired?’

‘Nope; just code for they went in a direction I didn’t want to follow, so I didn’t.’ He represses the urge to fold his arms and instead jams his free hand into his pocket. ‘Turns out there’s such a thing as too much partying. Wouldn’t have believed you if you told me a few years back but hey; that’s the way shit goes sometimes.’

‘Hn. A responsible guitarist. Not sure there’s too many of those about.’

‘Responsible nothing – just didn’t want to end up a part of the 27 Club.’ Hey, it’s not _totally_ a lie – it just wasn’t his bandmate that went on a bender bad enough to forget who he was for a week or two. Off to the side, Surik’s picked up her bass and looks like she’s about to start tuning so he lets his guitar case slide to the ground. ‘Would’ve brought a resume instead if I thought you’d be that interested in my background this much. We doing this or what?’

Revan’s expression darkens. For a moment Atton fears he’s hit a bit too close to home, thinks he might’ve fucked it up but then Revan rolls his shoulders and pushes up off the wall. ‘Might as fucking well. Surik, you found him, you can get the scrollers set up.’

‘Fine. You’re in charge of convincing T3 to play nice.’

Atton pauses, mid-unlatch. ‘T3?’

HK rolls his eyes. ‘The bucket of bolts those two sentimental idiots refuse to throw away.’

‘And talking about it like that is exactly why it keeps giving you grief,’ Revan says placidly. He pats the mixer almost fondly. Now that Atton’s looking at it “ancient” isn’t entirely accurate – it’s got all the modern inputs on it but some have clearly been kludged on and there’s more than a few dents, chips and questionable stains on the casing. He can’t even pick the brand, which is really saying something. ‘T3’s only temperamental if you’re a dick to it.’

‘Or don’t know that leaving the third channel fader on seven shorts out the whole board. Or that that maximum gain level on the first two channels is not ten as per the label but closer to four. Or that changing the last channels’ EQ changes no less than three other EQ settings, none in a logical manner, which changes _every time_ the shitting thing is powered on –’

‘You’re just salty because of the time it dropped your tracks after you said it should’ve been binned the day it was made,’ Surik says, with a faint smirk. To Atton, she says, ‘T3-M4. Our first mixer. It’s got… personality.’

‘It is categorically a piece of trash and it should have been destroyed _years_ ago. The royalties off _Meatbags_ on its own would have covered enough mixers for every last rehearsal space we’ve used over the years, all of which would actually _work_.’

A rather violent crackle sounds from the vicinity of the so-called T3. Revan looks down, only vaguely interested. ‘Want to guess whose mic input just shorted out?’

HK curses, loudly.

Atton eyes the provided cables warily. ‘Uh... I’m assuming my inputs have already been jacked in a way that _won’t_ blow the whole thing up.’

‘As long as you’re not a dick to it, yeah.’ Surik finishes tuning and heads over to him, auto-scroller already in hand. ‘So okay, T3’s not the most mechanically sound thing but it’s got its charms. It was there from the start, y’know? First rehearsal, first gig, first signing. Fuck, it’s responsible for the levelling that got _Rakata Prime_ so critically acclaimed – it’s not going anywhere.’

It’s not weird to be jealous of a mixer, right?

Atton shakes his head to dispel the sensation. Honestly, he agrees with HK more than Surik but he’s smart enough to not vocalise it, especially if it risks pissing off an apparently-sentient mixer. He’s worked in the industry enough to know that sometimes you’re better off listening to the crazy-sounding people because you’ll waste more time trying to prove them wrong than you will if you just roll with it.

Also, Surik’s vote of confidence alone is well worth biting his tongue. To say nothing of the sex. Or the goddamn reason he’s being auditioned in the first place.

He slings his guitar over his shoulder and tunes up. Thanks to last night’s events it doesn’t take long. Revan fixes up HK’s mic input and sets the initial levels as Surik sets up the scrollers (unsurprisingly _Into the Shadowlands_ is first on the list, followed by the Malachor-era version of _Meatbags_ ) and Atton forces himself to breathe evenly as the gravity of his situation settles in on him.

He’s in a rehearsal jam with three out of four of Revanchist’s original members and he’s the number-one pick to replace the fourth, due only in part to the fact he gave their bassist multiple orgasms the night before. He’s the only person in the room not clad in black, the only person in the room with less than five visible tattoos, the only person with no piercings and it’s not untrue to say that if he’d given in to the temptation to grab a coffee on the way over he’d be shitting himself right now.

Fake it ‘til you make it though, right?

He starts his scale runs from C-major the way he always does and gives Surik an easy grin. ‘Ready.’

She glances to HK, who nods like he’s been ready for hours, then to Revan, who rubs his eyes before nodding. ‘Looks like we’re set. From the top?’

‘As always,’ Revan says, sounding almost bored. ‘All right. Don’t fuck up, Rand.’

‘Didn’t yesterday.’

Just before the scroller kicks in, HK says – directly into his mic, echoed loud and proud through the speakers – ‘So you really fucked him, Surik?’

She barely even flushes. He wishes he could say the same. ‘Didn’t know he’d play so well, did I?’

Then the drum intro kicks in and for a while, at least, Atton can lose himself in the riffs and pretend that nobody said anything all.

He is _so_ fucked.

* * *

Ninety-odd excruciating minutes later, Revan calls the session with a bored-sounding, ‘Time.’

He’s drenched in sweat. It’s been ages since he played this hard for this long, never mind with this many people in an enclosed space and he’s more than a little light-headed. He hasn’t dropped more than one or two notes the whole session though, even on the tracks he was unfamiliar with, and managed a decent improvised solo when directed to so he’s feeling pretty good about himself.

At least until Revan looks over to him, nods, and says, ‘Guess you’re more than just a good lay after all.’

He genuinely doesn’t have a snarky response to that. Not one that isn’t going to insult Surik, unjustly humiliate himself or potentially start a fight (normally he’d be fine with unjustly humiliating himself to ease the tension but he can’t figure out a way to do that without inadvertently ragging on Surik too). Instead he glances over to her with an expression he hopes comes off as _what do you want me to do here?_ and hopes like hell that she meant it yesterday when she told him to leave shit to her.

Surik smirks. _Such_ a bitch but _god_ , she’s gorgeous and _fuck_ , he’s in so far over his head. ‘Clearly. So?’

‘Keep him,’ HK says flatly. Despite the fact he looks like he’s tried to suck off a firehose he’s speaking as evenly as he was at the start of the session. Atton’s starting to understand where the press gets off calling the man a drumming machine. ‘Just give him a fucking haircut first.’

‘Well, _obviously_ ,’ Surik says. She unslings her bass, pushes her own sweat-drenched hair off her forehead as Atton suffers a brief spike of hair-based insecurity. ‘Stage aesthetics are easily fixed. Revan?’

Revan rubs at his eyes again, then his temples. ‘Not like we have a lot of options, is it?’

‘Yes or no, fucker.’

‘I’ll get legal to draft up something today.’ He opens his eyes again, looks over Atton critically. ‘No royalties on the old stuff, obviously. Percentages on the new stuff aren’t up for debate until you’ve proven you’re worth keeping around outside Surik’s bedroom (she gives an insincere “Piss off, Revan”; Atton doesn’t even dream of correcting him). You’re on probation with no retainer ‘til we clear a gig or you fuck up. Sounds doable?’

It sounds insane is what it sounds. Just yesterday he was on the floor at Peragus thinking he’d be watching the next thirty years of his life pass without getting out of that shitty polo. Today he’s being made an offer by Revan himself to replace Alek of Revanchist – and judging from the victorious, almost hungry look in Surik’s eyes, the celebration’s going to be better than it has any fucking right to be.

Atton nods dumbly. ‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s doable.’

And just like that, he’s in.

What the _fuck_.

‘We’re done for today, then. Wrap it up.’ He runs a hand through his hair, looks over to Surik. ‘I’ll trust you to give him the rundown between sets – and that was sets with a hard “t”.’

She flips him off as she starts breaking gear down. It seems more reflexive than anything else. ‘Go play lawyers with the pencil-pushers; I’ll handle shit here. Rand, stick around. We’ll pack up and get you set up with some homework.’

‘Not in the fucking studio, you won’t. You’ll scandalize T3.’

Surik rolls her eyes. ‘I was talking _tabs_ , asshole. Besides, I know for a fact it’s seen way more traumatizing shit than that.’

‘Thought we agreed –’

‘I was talking about the “Unknown Regions” tour. The Italian incident?’

Revan relaxes his shoulders. ‘Still say it should’ve been you that got to clean the pasta out of it.’

Atton busies himself in packing up his guitar. He’s not even going to _touch_ that. He might be an idiot but he’s far from stupid.

Across the room, HK finishes cleaning his kit with almost mechanical precision. ‘We need more wipes,’ he announces as he flings the empty packet across the room into a waiting wastebasket. ‘Well. _You_ need more wipes. I’m done.’

‘Selfish prick.’

‘ _Efficient_ prick, Surik,’ he corrects. ‘It’s hardly my fault you’re slow.’

‘No, just your fault that you’re a wasteful basket-case.’ She stands with a sigh regardless. ‘Anything else we need? I’m not making the run to storage twice.’

Various noises of disinterest are made and – with a somewhat suspicious side-eye to Revan and a steely glance to Atton – she leaves the room.

The silence is immediate and heavy. He hates it. Yet he continues packing up his equipment as if nothing much has happened at all, even though his heart’s beating practically out of his ears. Idiot, yes; stupid, no. Hopefully he’s just reading too much into shit.

Then a shadow falls over his guitar case. He grits his teeth and doesn’t look up.

‘Let’s make this clear,’ Revan says. His voice has dropped to an almost maliciously cold depth. ‘You’re good; you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. But you’re still on probation until you’ve proven yourself. No matter what fucking else happens the band _always_ comes first and if you have any problems with that, walk out that door right fucking now. You fuck up, you’re done, here and everywhere else. You fuck _her_ up – if she leaves anything of you, you’re _dead_. Got it?’

Atton recalls the grisly scars on Alek’s jaw, remembers the rumours and theories and fallout of Malachor and gets the idea that Revan’s threats are not entirely hyperbole. His stomach churns uncomfortably – this is a bad idea. A terrible idea. He doesn’t belong here, he’s not one of them; a haircut and wardrobe update won’t change that and he almost certainly can’t hide the details of his past forever.

It’s the stupidest idea he’s ever followed through on in his life but he knows without question that he’ll do it, if only to get to stay with Surik for as long as she’ll have him.

Christ, he’s pathetic. God only knows what she sees in him. He just hopes that once the novelty wears off she lets him down easy (because it will, he _knows_ it will, even if he really fucking hopes otherwise).

Atton exhales through his teeth, forces himself to relax his jaw and look up to meet Revan’s steely gaze with as much faked confidence as he can muster. ‘Loud and clear. Personal shit stays out of band space; band takes priority. I won’t fuck up.’ He means it, too. He just hopes he’s able to follow through.

Revan’s lip twitches. ‘Heard that before. I’ll believe it when you prove it. You’d best not disappoint.’ Then he turns away to deal with T3, leaving Atton kneeling stock-still with a racing heart and wondering just what the fuck he’s signed up for.

Well – that’s a lie. It’s Surik. The band shit barely even factored into his considerations… though right now he’s kind of regretting that it didn’t.

HK slaps a hand on his shoulder as he heads past Atton for the door. His fingernails dig into Atton’s shirt. Not hard enough to bruise but more than enough to be uncomfortable – a warning, or a challenge. Or just way too much grip strength from years of snapping drumsticks like twigs. The man’s a hard read. ‘You play well for someone with no major credits to their name. Very interesting solo, too – highly technical, especially for an improvisation.’

He forces himself to shrug casually. ‘What can I say? Partying cuts into practice time and Peragus isn’t exactly known for hosting shows.’

‘I suppose. And yet I wonder that you were content to remain in such a place when you were clearly capable of more.’

His heart feels like it’s pounding hard enough to be heard even with the room’s dampening. If he makes it a week in the group without stroking out it’ll be a fucking miracle. ‘Capable, maybe. Willing, not so much.’ Deserving, not so much either but he doesn’t say _that_. It’s going to be an uphill battle establishing himself as suave and cool to begin with; he’s not giving them any more ammunition than they already have. He’s already praying that none of them bother to research his background.

Maybe he should get a piercing or two along with the haircut. It can’t hurt that much, right?

HK squeezes, only edging on too firmly, then lifts his hand and continues walking. ‘Fair. It will be… _interesting_ to see what you bring to the group.’

Then he’s gone, leaving Atton alone with the silent Revan, and for the life of him Atton doesn’t know if he’s relieved or furious. After a second’s consideration he elects to split the difference. It’s not like HK will know or care either way.

Fortunately Surik returns before the room’s atmosphere reaches untenable levels of awkward. He has half a mind to get an apology for it later but realistically, he’ll take whatever the fuck he gets with gratitude (and only partially snarked gratitude at that). He’s at least a week or two off actually being willing to push things – she’s so far out of his league she might as well be in a whole other galaxy and he is absolutely, categorically not going to risk fucking that up so soon.

Yeah, he still doesn’t know what she sees in him. He’s hardly about to question her on it. The last thing he needs is her coming to her senses now.

Surik is professional and entirely appropriate with him as they work through the various bits of kit in the room (giving both the drums and T3 a respectfully wide berth). Eventually – thankfully – Revan takes his leave, with only a vague grunt in his wake as he departs.

About five seconds after the door shuts with a _click_ , Atton finds his pulse racing yet again as Surik covers his hand with her own.

‘So, not a fuck-up, right?’ he asks, only half meaning it in jest.

Surik leans in to plant a somewhat chaste kiss on his cheek. ‘You did good, Rand,’ she murmurs, her voice warm against his skin. ‘ _Very_ good. I’m almost regretting not asking you to perform solo for me yesterday.’

It’s almost unfair how strong of an effect she has on him. ‘Eh; I play better with others anyway. Though I’d be more than happy to, uh, give you a private show. If you wanted it.’ He turns, meeting her halfway for a far, _far_ less chaste kiss. She has a hand on his chest before he’s even drawn breath. ‘Though if you’re feeling impatient I… could always be persuaded to make it a duo act.'

She threads the fingers of her free hand through his hair as he draws her deep into his arms. ‘Careful. You’re tempting me into doing something stupid.’

‘I’m right here, Surik. How much more tempting do I have to be?’

Her grin is as addictive as her body was last night. If he could see it every day for the rest of his life, he’d die a happy man. ‘I guess at least you’re honest. Feel like showing me exactly what kind of fingering drills made you such a good guitarist?’

He’s fucked, _so_ fucked, and he’s never been more okay with it in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> "Oh hey arturas_writes, you remember all those years of music lessons you took as a kid? Did you ever end up using them for anything?"
> 
> "Yeah, they're coming in really handy to write crack-ish smut for a decades-old videogame on the internet."
> 
> (Sorry, mum)
> 
> Big props to Clio_Codex for encouraging the original oneshot and then collaborating on the whole-ass AU that's somehow come out of it - the whole concept of an "audition" scene is her doing and Atton's pianist background, Meetra's aesthetic and Atton meeting Meetra while stuck are 100% her inputs. The lame-ass titling and bad language, though, you can completely blame on me.
> 
> Both of us can be found on tumblr under the same usernames as here and are suckers for concrit/analysis/questions/etc - feel free to hit us up and we'll only mostly type your ear off!


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